


Boneless Sunday

by khanberbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khanberbatch/pseuds/khanberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock fall asleep on the couch together after the incident at the pool<br/>After that, they just can't seem to sleep apart</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Moriarty. The name still clangs around in John’s head. With a heavy sigh, he falls with a thud on the couch and toes off his shoes. Moments later, Sherlock follows. Neither of them says anything. Too much has happened tonight, and enough will be said at the Yard tomorrow. John leans his head back and closes his eyes. He knows he should probably go to his room, but he doesn’t really want to let Sherlock out of his sight. Last time that happened he ended up with a bomb strapped to him. He peeks an eye open to look at Sherlock. He had curled himself into a little ball on the other end of the sofa, eyes closed and already half asleep. John reaches behind him and tugs the blanket off the back of the couch, clumsily laying it over the both of them. He once again closes his eyes, his thoughts getting dimmer by the moment, before sleep takes hold.  
  
 _“Sorry boys! I'm soooo changeable!” Moriarty’s voice trills. “It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you. Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.” Sherlock raises his gun and points it to the jacket laced with explosives. “Probably my answer has crossed yours.” Moriarty laughs and spins around, he flings an arm above his head, and suddenly the room explodes with sound. Just as Sherlock is shot, he pulls the trigger, the bullet deploying and hitting the jacket. John can barely get out a strangled “Sherlock!” before everything goes black._  
  
John awakens with a start, breathing heavy. He groans and rubs his face before opening his eyes all the way. Sherlock had stretched himself out over the course of the night, and had entangled his legs with John’s torso. John lifts his head and squints at the clock over on the mantle.  
  
4:30.  
He had gotten maybe three hours of sleep, but could already tell he wasn’t going to be getting anymore today. With a sigh he lets his head fall back and he sets to the task of untangling himself from Sherlock without waking him up. God knows the man needs some sleep. John stands and pads into the kitchen, putting the kettle on. Grumbling, he makes his way to the fridge to hopefully salvage something edible for breakfast. Pushing the Tupperware of body parts aside, he realizes his attempt is fruitless. There is not a single thing they could (safely) eat in this flat. He supposes he could go down to Mrs. Hudson’s and get some biscuits, but really, she had gone through enough these past few days, she doesn’t need him waking her at half past four in the morning. He slams the fridge shut and yanks the kettle off the counter . Pouring himself a cuppa, he sets himself down at the kitchen table and opens his laptop. He blankly stares at the screen for a moment before realizing he is not ready to begin writing this case quite yet. Sure, writing things down while the details are still fresh is the best idea, but in all honesty, John wants to forget these details as soon as possible. He sighs and shuts his laptop. He glances over at the clock.  
  
4:45.  
He could head upstairs and try to lie down, but he doesn’t think that will work all too well. Besides, Sherlock should be up soon, and then it won’t seem so damn quiet and John’s thoughts can rest. As John is about to stand and head back into the sitting room, he hears the shuffling of Sherlock’s feet, and he leans back, pretending to be engrossed in the paper resting across from him. Sherlock brushes past him, glancing down and snorting.  
“Obviously you aren’t reading that paper, John.”  
John slides the paper away from him and quirks a brow up at the detective.  
“Oh? And how do you know that?”  
Sherlock finishes filling his cup before he turns and leans against the counter, an amused smirk on his face.  
“That paper is from last week.”  
He takes a sip of tea and then scoffs,  
“And I thought your deduction skills were getting better!”  
He sets his mug down on the table, looking right pleased with himself, and pulls the chair out across from John to join him. John gives him a light kick under the table, one Sherlock readily returns.  
“Right... Sleep okay?”  
Sherlock absently nods, his mind probably already lost somewhere as it often is. They sit like that a bit. Companionable silence. Suddenly Sherlock turns his gaze on John, his eyes bright.  
“Yesterday was a bit not good.”  
John nods.  
“Quite a lot more than a bit.”  
Sherlock’s eyes dart away from Johns face.  
“It was all my fault. And for that I apologize.”  
John looks over at Sherlock, completely shocked. Obviously he had put some thought into doing this, he never was one to express guilt or for that matter apologize for anything.  
“Yeah, well, I was the one that was stupid enough to get trapped with that bomb on my chest.”  
Sherlock’s eyes shoot up, full of fire once again.  
“No. This was not your fault John Watson. Don’t.”  
Sherlock really is a puzzle. John’s next personal case should be to figure out the enigma of a man in front of him. Without thinking, he grabs Sherlock’s hand lying on the table, “But it wasn’t yours either.”  
Sherlock pulls his hand from John’s light grip and rests it in his lap. He doesn’t say anything, he just looks past John, lost in his mind palace again. John sighs lightly and stands. He gives Sherlock one last look before turning and going into the sitting room. 

* * *

  
The rest of the day passes slowly. Lestrade calls them in for statements, they stop by Barts to get something from Molly, and stop by Angelo’s for dinner. The walk home is quiet, as always, but John can tell Sherlock is still thinking, locked away in his mind. The rest of the night passes in a similar fashion, Sherlock thinking and John carrying on. “I’m off to bed.” Sherlock jumps, startled out of his trance. He peers over at the clock.  
  
10:30  
He gives a dismissive hand gesture and steeples his hands under his chin once again. John sighs, a weary smile on his face, and starts up the stairs to try and get some sleep. Since _the incident_ there had been a shift. Everything seems normal on the outside, but John can tell that although their odd connection is still there, there’s something different about it. He almost hates to leave Sherlock downstairs. Usually, this would be because of some dreadful experiment of some sort; but tonight John just wants to be by him, make sure he’s safe and everything is okay. He wants Sherlock’s legs curled around him again, the closeness and warmth and safe feeling that comes from sleeping next to another person. He shakes his head. This is Sherlock he’s talking about, the man that shudders at the _word_  sentiment, much less acts of it. Making up his mind to just lie down and try to sleep (even though he knows it will fail), John wraps himself in the duvet and thumps back against his pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Sherlock is a bit of a baby, and John realizes he enjoys sharing a bed with him.

John sighs and rolls over to his other side to look at the clock.  
1:45  
Shit.  
  
 He flips his pillow over, fluffs it, and lays on his back. He doesn’t have to be at the clinic or anything tomorrow, but going days at a time on little sleep is not something that works for any humans other than Sherlock.  
John’s thoughts drift until he is finally relaxed, in his own mind palace you could say, that is until a very loud crash from downstairs brings John back to reality. He jumps out of bed and yanks his gun out of the drawer in the bedside table, suddenly very alert. There’s a moment of silence and then some soft creaking, then Sherlock appears in his doorway, and leans himself against the doorframe.  
“Fuck, Sherlock, what happened?”  
Sherlock waves his hand about,  
“I may have broken that snow globe you got last week.”  
John sighs and drops his gun back in the drawer.  
“Would that happen to be the one Laura bought for me?”  
Sherlock makes a noncommittal gesture and strides across John’s room in three long steps. He lifts the corner of the blankets and crawls in his bed, draping himself across the entire thing.  
“Sherlock, wh-”  
Sherlock cuts him off with a loud grumble and folds himself up so John can also fit, and lifts the half of the blankets currently not covering him. John hesitates a moment before clambering in next to Sherlock. This was what he wanted in the first place. He turns his back to Sherlock and pulls the blankets up to his chin. He can feel Sherlock roll onto his side, facing away from him, and settle in. Suddenly, John’s eyes felt really heavy. 

* * *

  
John groggily peels his eyes open, only to shut them again and groan. Over the course of the night, Sherlock had somehow managed to entangle his own limbs with John’s and was pressed up tightly against his back. John tries to shift, but Sherlock’s arm draped across his chest tightens and keeps him in place. He could wake Sherlock, but how often does he sleep _this much_ , he would feel like a prick. John sighs and just closes his eyes, letting himself drift back off.  
  
When John wakes up again later, Sherlock has left. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and slides his slippers on. He starts down the stairs, sliding his robe on his shoulders as he goes.  Sherlock is perched on his chair, piles of books surrounding him,  
“Gah!”  
He tosses the one he is holding aside and picks up another. John eyes him warily on his way to the bathroom. He locks himself in, rids himself of his layers and clothing, and starts the shower. After a quick debate as to whether or not he should shave (the answer being not, he isn’t really planning on going much anywhere for a few days at least), he emerges himself in the warm spray of water. After a perfunctory lather, he leans against the shower wall. He isn’t going to talk about last night unless Sherlock is the one to bring it up; and because come on, this is Sherlock he’s talking about, he doesn’t think he will. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy what happened last night, in fact is it quite the opposite. In full honesty, he doesn’t want to make it too awkward so that it won’t happen again. That was the first night in a long time he hadn’t had terrible nightmares. Yeah, Sherlock is a clingy sleeper, but that’s not so bad, it’s really kind of cozy. John turns off the faucet and steps out into the steamy bathroom. He hastily puts his pajamas and robe back on and steps out of the room. He stops in the kitchen and grabs an apple before going into the sitting room and settling down in his armchair, across from Sherlock. The pile of reject books has grown considerably during the twenty minutes he was in the shower. Sherlock sits opposite him, aggressively flipping through the current book in his hands.  
  
“Alright, I give. What are you doing?”  
Sherlock angrily throws the book across the room and scruffs both hands through his hair.  
“These books are useless! How hard must one look to find considerable information on the decomposition of the human brain!”  
John takes a bite of his apple and considers the ridiculous man in front of him.  
“I do hope you’ve tried the internet already?”  
He rolls his eyes and tucks his legs up under him.  
“Obviously.”  
 “Did you talk to Molly?”  
He falls back into his sulk even further.  
“She won’t answer my texts.”  
John stands up and starts toward the stairs; before ascending to his bedroom, he turns to Sherlock, a smirk on his face,  
“Well then, I suggest you get back to reading.”  
Sherlock exhales sharply, the sour look on his face soured even more with each passing second. He grabs the next book on the pile and sticks his nose in it. John goes upstairs to get dressed, a cheeky grin making its way onto his face.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones a bit short, but i wanted to stick with a consistent posting schedule. The next one should be up within a week.  
> Still debating on whether or not to continue too much further, any feedback is more than welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> finally some schmoop

Over the course of the day, Sherlock’s quest for information dies down, and he is left lying face up on the couch, an arm flopped precariously over the side. John spent the day tidying up the house and texting with his latest fling, Laura. She wants to go out later, but John isn’t really feeling it, and he definitely doesn’t want her meeting Sherlock just yet. That is if he wants to even carry it on to that point. Sherlock takes up so much of his time, having a girlfriend just seems like a lot of work. The only missing thing from his and Sherlock’s convoluted relationship is sex. And that’s not something he thinks Sherlock is in to. And god, he would not mind sex with Sherlock, he’s bloody fit for a bloke. He eyes Sherlock from his armchair. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, but John knows he’s not asleep. For fucks sake, he had slept the most in the past couple of days than he had ever seen. By the way Sherlock’s eyes are moving behind his eyelids, he can tell he’s just thinking. John gets up to go make supper, but Sherlock opens his eyes and puts out an arm, waving his hand to stop him.  
“I think I should like some Thai tonight.”  
He peers up at him, his silver grey eyes scanning his face for an answer,  
“Yeah, alright. The usual?”  
Sherlock nods and closes his eyes again, settling back into the couch.  
John sets to the task of calling up Sherlock’s favorite place.  
  
The rest of the night is slow and relaxing, progressively getting its way back to normal. They ate Thai food, John turned some quiz show on the telly, and Sherlock yelled at the contestants. Around eleven, John stands and dismisses himself for the night. Sherlock, who had picked up his violin a while ago, gives no acknowledgement. Tchaikovsky fills the flat as John climbs in his bed, and lies wide awake, no hope of sleeping. After maybe another hour of music, it promptly stops. John can hear Sherlock putting the violin away, walking across the flat, and begin to climb the stairs. Was this going to be a nightly occurrence? Did Sherlock normally sleep this much without John’s knowledge? John’s door cracks open, and Sherlock steps inside. He taps the door closed with his foot, and slides into the bed next to John. He looks at John for his reaction a moment, and apparently pleased with what he sees, rolls over onto his side. John debates saying something, but decides it’s best if he doesn’t. He too rolls over, and starts to drift off.  
  
John awakens to an empty bed. He lazily makes his way into the sitting room, only to find Sherlock missing. He checks the other rooms, and still, no Sherlock. He sighs and takes out his phone.  
  
  
 _Where are you?_  
\- JW  
  
  
He makes himself some tea and grabs a slice of toast before his mobile pings.  
  
  
 _Out. Be back later._  
-SH  
  
Was this because of him? Sherlock had been surprisingly intimate lately, is this time for him to think? Is there a case? Or is he just out? Asking these questions will get him nowhere John decides, and he settles down with his laptop, to get the Moriarty case written out as quickly as possible. Possibly, and although he doubts it very much, some of the pain might lessen if he gets it all out in the open.  
  
Around nine Sherlock strides up the stairs and into the apartment, carrying a bag of Ethiopian food. “I saw you posted the case.” John turns and studies him a moment. He doesn’t seem to be visibly upset, just stating a fact. “The Great Game. It very much was.” He plops the bag on the kitchen counter, his back to John. “You did leave out one very important detail, though.” Well fucking shit, the Great Detective has once again found a flaw. John turns to face him and huffs out, “Oh, and what was that?” Sherlock turns and slinks toward him. “You forgot to mention the absolute terror we both felt, when we thought we would have to live without one another.” He kneels down in front of his arm chair and leans forward, suddenly very close. “I had quite a bit of time to think about that today.” Ah, so he was getting some air. Sherlock’s bright eyes scan his face for reaction; before slowly leaning in, giving John plenty of time to back out if he wanted to, and pressing his mouth gently against John’s. He pulls away, and scans John’s face again. John barks out an insane laugh and throws his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “I have waited so bloody long for that, you mad bastard.” Sherlock allows himself a smile before John pulls him back in for a proper kiss. “Oi, it’s getting late. Bed?” Sherlock nods and holds his hand out to help John up. They climb up the stairs and climb into bed together. John snuggles in close behind Sherlock and gives his shoulder a peck. And finally; they had a fundamental understanding, that they had always been a couple, and always shall be. Finally, things are as they should have been from the very beginning.

* * *

  
John lazily stretches out and rests his head in Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock lets out a contented hum and brushes John’s hair off of his face. He rests his hand over John’s chest. They spend the day like that, snippets of television between languid kisses and shameless cuddling on the couch. A Sunday well spent; truly a perfect, boneless, Sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that my friends, is the final chapter. i hope you all enjoyed it, i hope to start a new fic soon

**Author's Note:**

> I am hoping to expand this into a multiple chapter thing  
> Next chapter should be up shortly!  
> Any feedback would help immensely  
> Thanks!


End file.
